Nightmares
by SherlockTheOtter
Summary: Established Johnlock with Parentlock and Mpreg. John's had a nightmare, and the baby's involved.


**Author's Note: Hiiii! I'm kinda new to this, so please don't eat me! I'm joking, I'm sure you guys are lovely. So.. read and review I guess, and please say if you want me to write some more, because I'm debating whether to leave it or not (also any ideas for a better title, much appreciated).  
**

** -SherlockTheOtter**

* * *

_Screams.  
Gunshots.  
Bright lights and clouds of dust.  
A little Afghan boy ran past him, screaming,_  
"_Daddy!"  
John recognised the word, it was in English, he didn't know why. The child collapsed over the fallen man, sobbing.  
Suddenly the boy turned his head. His blue eyes flashed in his pale face, and his dark curly hair whipped in the wind- wait. Blue eyes? Pale skin? John stared; his son opened his mouth and screamed in pain and rage, as the bullets tore through his small body-_

John lurched forward in bed, soaked in a cold sweat, panting. He looked around wildly, hair plastered to his face, wide eyes confused by the sudden darkness and lack of noise.  
"John?" the sleepy voice of the dark-haired detective startled him.

Sherlock slowly shifted in the bed, his pregnant bulge making it difficult to do anything these days.  
"Was it Afghanistan again? No, something was different this time..." Sherlock furrowed his brow, sleep made his brain so slow! "Something to do with the baby?"

"What? I... yes, sort of..." John lay back on the bed; he didn't even bother asking how Sherlock knew that, probably saw him looking at the bump for a second longer than normal or something.  
"Do you... Do you want to talk about it?" John stared at Sherlock, incredulous. He wanted to talk to him about his dreams, his feelings? The baby had definitely had an impact on him then.

Sherlock was quite shocked at his own question too, but hid the expression with ease, he didn't want John to think he didn't care, but ordinary things, feelings, were so dull!

"It was Afghanistan, to start with, but then I saw,_ him_..." John indicated Sherlock's belly, "I saw him, he was... he got..." Tears prickled in John's eyes and he laid a hand on the bump. "Sherlock what are we doing?"

"What?" Sherlock sat up in bed and folded his hands over his bump. He could see that John was clearly upset by something he dreamt about their child, but what had happened? Sherlock studied him; John was being protective of the baby, he kept stroking the bump and had that expression he wore whenever something threatened them on a case, something bad then, perhaps the baby had been hurt? Was this something to do with their work? "The baby was hurt, John?"

"Yes, he got... he got shot, I dreamt than he was in Afghanistan and he was shot. Sherlock, what are we going to do with a baby? We can't take him on cases."

"Yes we can,"

"No, Sherlock, we can't! It's too dangerous! We can't run around London with him strapped to our backs!"

Sherlock sighed. They'd had this kind of discussion before, but John had never been this upset.  
"John, calm down, we've talked about this,"

"But Sherlock, what if... What if Moriarty finds out about him? What then? I can't do that again, I nearly lost you, I thought I had lost you, and this time I would loose him and maybe you too!" John's voice rose desperately, higher, louder.

Sherlock sighed again, reached out and held him close. He could feel John shaking in his arms, could feel John's hands resting protectively on the baby.  
"John, Moriarty's dead, remember? He's never coming back, not now, not ever. He can't do anything to us. While I was... away, I was dismantling his network, remember? You're just tired, go back to sleep." Sherlock lay down next to his partner, still holding him tight, determined to stay awake for the rest of the night so he could calm John if he showed any signs of distress again.

John faced his partner, and put a hand on the baby; he felt a small foot pressing into the skin.  
"You're right, I'm sorry, I'm just tired, and that, dream scared me, that's all," John said, reassuring himself more than his lover; he arched his neck and kissed Sherlock's cheek, "Thank you" he murmured sleepily, "Moriarty's dead, he can't come back, not like you..."

Sherlock stroked John's hair, and frowned into the blonde waves,  
"That's... quite right, love."


End file.
